The Adventures of Neal and Peter
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: Ridiculous little stories involving the characters of White Collar, inspired by classic children's books.  In this final installment: Reese Hughes perseveres and saves the day.
1. The Perfect Hat

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, never will be. Just messing around.

**Posting:** Basically when inspiration strikes. These are all little self-contained stories; it's not like I'm writing a serial suspense thriller. If there's a gap of months and months, there shouldn't be any problem. So, ya know, just read and laugh and enjoy.

**Note:** If there's anything in particular that you want to see or some particular author's style you want me to try and imitate, leave it in a review or PM me, and I will do my best to oblige you.

And so, without further ado, here is the beginning of the collection.

* * *

**The Perfect Hat**

Neal was sad. "I have lost my hat," he said to Peter.

Peter said, "Your hat is silly. I am glad you lost it."

He even stuck out his tongue! Peter was Neal's good friend, but sometimes he forgot his manners and was very rude.

"_I_ am not glad!" Neal said. "That was my favorite hat! You are being mean!"

Peter sighed. "I am sorry. You are right. Well, we do not have cases today. You should buy a new hat. I will go with you."

They went to a store that had many, many hats. Neal put on a big, floppy hat covered in wax fruit and fake flowers.

"Is this my hat, Peter?"

"No," said Peter. "That is a silly hat."

"But you said that _my_ hat is a silly hat."

"That is a silly hat, but that is not _your_ silly hat."

"Oh," said Neal. "You are right, it is not my hat. But it is so pretty! May I wear this silly hat?"

"No, you may not. Everyone at the FBI will laugh at you, and that will make me sad. Put it back."

Neal put the hat back. Then Neal put on a baseball cap. "Is this my hat?"

"No, that is a baseball cap."

"But I like baseball."

"Yes, but a baseball cap looks silly with a suit, and you are wearing a suit."

"That is true. Goodbye, baseball cap."

Neal put the cap back, but then he found the prettiest hat he had ever seen. It was a silly beanie with red, white, and black stripes. It had a propeller on top. He put it on. He hit the propeller with his finger and made it spin. He smiled in the mirror. "Peter, I have found my hat! Look how well it goes with my tie!"

Peter shook his head. "No, no, no. Neal, you must stop being so silly! That is the silliest hat I have ever seen! Put it back, and we will find your hat."

So Neal put the beanie back. Peter and Neal walked into the clothes shop next door.

The man at the desk said, "May I help you?"

"My friend has lost his hat," Peter said. "He needs a new one."

"I have the perfect hat for your friend," the man said. "It is called a fedora. It is a beautiful hat. Come with me."

The man brought them to the back of the store. He used a long stick to poke a hat that was hiding on top of a very high shelf. The hat fell down, down, down ... and Neal caught it. He put it on his head and looked in the mirror. He was very happy.

"Peter, this is the perfect hat. I have found my hat."

Neal was right. The hat looked very good with his suit.

"Yes, Neal, you have found your hat," Peter said, and he was happy, too.

Neal paid the man at the desk for his hat. The man cut the tag off, and Neal put it back on. The sun was shining, and Neal and Peter left the store and went for a walk.

"Thank you for helping me find my hat, Peter," said Neal. Then he scratched his head. "Peter, I wear this blinking light on my leg. You always know where I am. You did not have to come with me to look for a hat. Why did you come with me?"

"Because I am your friend," said Peter.

THE END


	2. Goodnight Kate

Spoilers for the Season One finale, **Out of the Box. **

I'm so excited that I came up with another idea. For a while I was afraid that I would have to re-title this "The Adventure, Singular, of Neal and Peter," slap a "complete" sticker on the work and walk away.

As for this installment… Look, some people are going to freak out and insist that I am trivializing Neal's loss. I'm actually honoring it. I'm just honoring it in a very non-traditional way.

With profound apologies to the immortal children's classic, _Goodnight Moon_.

* * *

**Goodnight Kate**

Neal wore white socks and soft blue pajamas. He climbed into his big comfy bed, settled against the pillows, and pulled the warm covers up high. His apartment was dark and cozy, and the crescent moon shone brightly through the window. He looked around him, taking in all his shadowy things and art and furniture, and began.

"Goodnight, Kate."

He looked across the room.

"Goodnight easel and wooden crate."

He looked at his messy dining table.

"Goodnight ink and printing plate."

He looked up at the ceiling.

"Goodnight hopes, goodnight dreams,

Goodnight doubts and goodnight schemes."

He looked at his coffee table and library…

"Goodnight brushes and goodnight books,"

And he remembered who he dealt with every day.

"Goodnight Feds and goodnight crooks."

There was all he had to offer…

"Goodnight brain and goodnight heart."

And the things that helped make his life interesting.

"Goodnight chess set, goodnight art."

There were so many people who made his life interesting, too. There was Peter, and Elle, and Mozzie, and everybody at the FBI…

"And goodnight to all who do their part."

Neal was very grateful for what he had, but he knew too what he had lost, and his heart was heavy, and he was tired and alone. The moon would understand. He finished the poem.

"Goodnight heaven, goodnight star.

Goodnight, my love, wherever you are.

Goodnight, Kate."

And he closed his stinging eyes and slept.

THE END**  
**

* * *

Thoughts?


	3. Neal and the Terrible, Horrible, etc

**Warning:** This story contains normal levels of good humor and wit, but it also contains trace amounts of venomous sarcasm. … Oh wait, no, my bad, it contains _lethal_ amounts of venomous sarcasm. Whoops. *cheeky grin*

* * *

**Neal Caffery and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Story**

For some reason I got insanely drunk last night and now I've got a terrible headache and there's this blond woman in my bed that I don't recognize and when I got out of bed I looked up at the title of this piece and saw that my last name was misspelled and I knew that I was about to star in a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad story.

At breakfast I had coffee, Advil, and a bagel and I told the Mary Sue to get lost. She slunk away and I was left all alone to brood unnecessarily about Kate's death and try to pretend that _I_ had created this idiotic scenario where I was trying to fill the hole in my heart with meaningless sex and it took half an hour for the groan-inducing Angst to subside.

Somebody get me out of here.

Peter picked me up for work and Peter was acting horribly out of character. I said Hi and he just started yelling at me. Plus, he was driving like a maniac and I was really scared, so I said, Hey, Peter, slow down, man. You're going to hydroplane the Taurus into a building and kill us. Peter called me a wimp. I said, I'm going to be carsick. He didn't even answer. I opened my door three stoplights away from the FBI and leaned over in my seat and puked on the pavement.

I could tell this was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad story.

At work, Peter, Jones, Diana and Hughes were all acting weird and Peter was making eyes at me.

Then at morning break Peter cornered me in the men's room and finally admitted his deep-seated passion for me and told me he was divorcing Elizabeth and he kissed me. He was a terrible kisser and his breath smelled like stale beer. I fought him off and ran and hid in the ladies' room. This was turning into a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad story.

I could tell because we went out on a case and first I was drugged into submission and kidnapped and the kidnappers tortured me for a few days. And then I got hit by a car and ended up with brain damage. When I'd recovered from the brain damage I got beaten within an inch of my life by some thugs and then I got mauled by a pack of rabid dogs and I was left to die in an alley. And then when I'd recovered from that, I got shot in the chest. I _hate_ getting shot. I get shot all the time in these stories, and it's so annoying.

I woke up in the hospital ... for the fifth time ... and Peter was still acting out of character and he blamed me for getting myself shot. And then he tried to kiss me again. Eww.

I told him to go scratch and to please bring back my friend Special Agent Peter Burke, who was _not_ crazy. Crazy Peter left.

As I lay there in my hospital bed I heard good conversations taking place outside my room and I was jealous. I looked out into the hallway and saw everyone's dialogue appearing in bubbles over their heads. Every bit of their speech was properly framed with quotation marks. There wasn't a single apostrophe out of place and the syntax was perfect. Guess whose author forgot to use the speelchaykar?

It was truly a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad story.

And that's what it continued to be, because when I got out of the hospital Crazy Peter was back. But he was acting nice, probably to lull me into a false sense of security. Then he took me home with him and informed me that I had been a naughty boy and he dragged me down to the basement and threw me over his lap and pulled down my pants and spanked me. I broke down and started crying from all the abuse I'd been through in this stupid story and Peter called me a crybaby.

And while I was punching Peter for calling me a crybaby Elizabeth came down to the basement in nothing but a black negligee and told both of us to meet her upstairs for a threesome, because apparently the author had decided that everyone around me was supposed to lose their minds at the same time.

I am starring in a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad story, I yelled at Peter and Elizabeth. No one even answered. They just pulled me upstairs to their bedroom.

Let me tell you something. They can make me put on a dog collar, and they can make me take my clothes off and let them tie me up, but they can't make me like it.

I escaped after they fell asleep and took a taxi back to June's. June was trying to be nice, but she offered me some bittersweet chocolate as a treat and my stomach was upset and I hate bittersweet chocolate. There was a taunting phone call from Keller and I hate Keller.

The hot water ran out halfway through my shower, I got shampoo in my eyes, and all I had in the way of clean night clothes were my decidedly unlucky leprechaun boxer shorts. I hate my leprechaun boxer shorts.

I crawled into bed and tried not to settle too hard on my bruises, which were everywhere, and I sighed and said to no one, Wow, this has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad story. And then my phone rang. I was scared to pick it up because I thought it might be Keller again, but I did and oh thank goodness, it was Real Peter, _my_ Peter, who was worried about how I'd fared in this tale. I didn't really go into detail but I told him the basics.

He was quiet for a little bit and then he said, Jesus, Neal, I'm so sorry. You know I'd never actually spank you or kiss you or yell at you for no reason or let you get hurt over and over again, right?

I said, Yes, Peter, I know.

Peter said, Well, thankfully this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad story is over. Now go to sleep, get some rest, and wake up tomorrow morning safe and sound, here with the rest of us, where you belong. I will pick you up at seven.

I said, I'll make sure there's coffee waiting for you.

THE END

* * *

**Quick Note.**

In case you're curious, the flow-of-consciousness narration, some of the phrases, and the convention of not using quotation marks in this vignette are directly lifted from the work that inspired it. I refer of course to the children's book published in 1972 that has since become a modern classic, _Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day_.

As for the content of this piece, I'm with Neal. He has every right to be grumpy and upset by the terrible things that happen to him around here. Just to be clear, I didn't use this piece to bash specific written works. I used this piece to bash bad ideas. There are plenty of little bad ideas around here, but I decided to go after some of the big bad ideas along with a reasonable idea that tends to be poorly written. White Collar is such an inherently classy, clever show, and I find it sad and ironic that a lot of the fiction that results from it is not classy or clever at all.

That having been said, you are welcome to try and explain the necessity and artistic value of the _buckets_ of crappy Hurt/Comfort we have around here (which makes the good, plausible Hurt/Comfort stories look stupid by association), the bad-to-middling Slash fics, the far-out OT3 tales, the borderline illegible Discipline stories, or anything else that smacks of poor taste and bad judgment. Go for it. I'm dying to see if anyone out there can mount a legible, intelligent defense of this stuff. And please don't argue that our little corner of FFN "needs" this. Even if at some point we _were_ in desperate need of it, there's a ton of it now, and so much of it is _so_ bad… People, I say we call a spade a spade. From now on, let's all refer to low-quality stories based on bad ideas as "embarrassments" and be done with it. As in, "Ah, I see you're gearing up for a 20-chapter embarrassment." "OMG, you slaved over that 300-word embarrassment for two hours? You must be _exhausted_." "Thet wuz a gud imburruzzmint. Smeck Neel's azz sum moar Petar!1!"

*shrug* Look, I write Humor. There's no reason that anybody should take me seriously or give two bleeps for my opinion. But just think about this, would you? Thanks.

Kiki


	4. The Very Thirsty FBI Agent

**Note: **For those who are unfamiliar with it, _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ by Eric Carle is a well-loved American picture book from the latter half of the 20th century. Because it has so few words, parodying it effectively in prose was something of a challenge. So, the text in **bold** is the text you would see in the book, and the text in _italics_ is a description of the picture you might find to accompany it. The original book illustrations are gorgeously rendered using an unusual paint-over-tissue-paper technique. (Google "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" and you'll see what I mean.) Please try to keep the style of those illustrations in mind as you read, and you'll get the full effect of the piece. (-:

* * *

**The Very Thirsty FBI Agent**

**In the light of the moon a big bundle of blankets lay on a bed.**

_A big oak bed with a lump in the middle is rendered in solid browns, purples, and blues._

**One Monday morning, the warm sun came up and ... pop! Out of the blankets came a very sleepy and very thirsty FBI agent.**

_The big orange sun smiles in the window. Sitting up in the bed, yawning and stretching his arms, his hair sticking up every which-way, is Peter._

**He started to look for some coffee.**

_Peter is blearily walking through the kitchen in his pajamas, arms out like Frankenstein, drooling and staggering towards the coffee maker. Elizabeth, seated at the table in her bathrobe, looks worried._

**On Monday morning, he drank one cup of black coffee, but he was still thirsty.**

_There is one empty coffee cup lying on its side._

**On Monday afternoon, he drank two cups of coffee with cream and sugar, but he was still thirsty.**

_Two empty coffee cups are lined up on Peter's desk._

**On Tuesday morning, he drank three cups of macchiato, but he was still thirsty.**

_Peter is carrying a tray with three cups into his office, past Diana and Jones, who are looking concerned and scratching their heads, respectively._

**On Tuesday afternoon, he drank four lattes, but he was STILL thirsty.**

_Peter is waterfalling a latte into his mouth as Neal stands outside his office, looking shocked. Three empty cups are in Peter's trashcan._

**On Wednesday morning, he drank five shots of espresso, but he was still thirsty.**

_Peter is positively _pounding_ the espressos, right there in Starbucks._

**On Wednesday afternoon he drank one java, one café au lait, one breva, one ristretto, one cappuccino, one demitasse cup of Turkish coffee, one lungo, one mocha, one frappé, and one cup of ice water. By 8 o'clock, he had the shakes.**

_Peter is at his desk. His clothes are rumpled and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks like a wreck. Neal, Diana and Jones are looking around his office in disbelief. There are empty cups everywhere. Diana is fisting her hair, and Neal is pointing at the overflowing trashcan. Jones is trying to pull a shaking Peter away from his computer._

**Now he wasn't thirsty anymore – and he wasn't a calm, controlled FBI agent anymore. He was a twitchy, jittery FBI agent, and all that caffeine was making him imagine some very silly things. First, he imagined he was the sun.**

_Peter is standing on his desk, silent and still, with his arms outstretched. His subordinates are watching him, unsure of what to do. Neal's mouth is open, and a little dialogue bubble over his head reads, "What on earth is he doing?"_

**Then he imagined he was the night wind.**

_Peter, still on his desk, is waving his arms and puffing out a lot of air. Neal, Jones, and Diana don't look very impressed. _

**Then he imagined that he was a beautiful butterfly, and he got a running start out of his office. He tried to take flight off the balcony into the bullpen.**

_Peter is standing tiptoe on the balcony with his eyes closed, completely oblivious to the danger, leaning off at a forty-five degree angle and flapping his arms in delight. Diana is almost out of Peter's office. She has Jones by the waist. Jones has Neal by the waist. Neal, tongue sticking out with the effort, barely has _Peter_ by the belt, and the other two agents are gritting their teeth as they tug._

**Fortunately, his friends pulled him to safety.**

_Peter is lying on top of Neal, who has landed in Jones's lap, and Diana, who is still upright, is laughing._

**But once the FBI agent was safe, he stopped imagining he was a butterfly, because he felt very sick. Too many caffeinated treats had upset his tummy. He ran for the restroom.**

_Peter is banging open the restroom door and dashing inside. He is holding his belly and looking green._

**Once he was done, he felt much better, but he was very tired. His friends wrapped him up in a cocoon of blankets, put him to bed on the couch in his office, and called his wife. **

_There is a big bundle of blankets on the couch. Elizabeth, Neal, Jones, and Diana are standing in a circle. Elizabeth's clothing is pristine, but Neal and the two agents are rumpled from rescuing Peter. Neal has his hands on his hips and a dialogue bubble above his head reads, "Elizabeth, Peter's coffee drinking is out of control. It's time for an intervention."_

**So the FBI agent's wife took him home and got him some help. Soon, he was only drinking two cups of coffee a day, and everybody was very relieved. A few days later, he came back to work and …**

_The illustration is of Peter and Elizabeth's house, as seen at night, with some lights on. Satchmo is a shadow in one window._

**Everything was back to normal.**

_Neal, Diana, and Jones look on, smiling, as Peter sits calmly at his desk, sorting some papers. His shirt is neatly ironed, his hair is combed, and his tie is immaculate._

THE END


	5. The SAC That Could

**Note:** My profound thanks go to CCG (canadianscanget) for the idea behind this vignette. CCG was tickled by Reese Hughes' fixation with trains. It was a concept that I used to add fluff to the final story of "Titan of Industry." I just made it up as a joke, but she really liked the idea and she suggested a lot of interesting stuff. So, Cici, this one's for you. The book that inspired this piece is the classic tale about the value of hard work and determination, _The Little Engine that Could_, by Wally Piper. Enjoy. (-:

* * *

**The SAC That Could**

Type, type, type on the computer. Talk, talk, talk on the phone. People going in the doors and out the doors. The White Collar office was very busy today. It was a happy little office, for all the agents had just pulled off a very big win and sent a nasty embezzler to prison.

There were many agents in the office. There were gentlemen agents who wore ties and dress shirts, and lady agents who wore nice dresses and pretty jewelry. There were secretaries with dangly earrings and clerks with rolled up sleeves. And of course, there was the office's secret weapon: the funniest, most charming con artist you ever met.

But that was not all. There were desks, and computers, and carpeting, and big windows, and file folders, and pens and pencils and staplers, and at the moment, a big box of "Faux-lex" watches, which were on their way to the evidence lock-up. All the agents were very happy. They were looking forward to finishing up the paperwork on this big case and going home. You see, the White Collar office employed all these wonderful, talented, hardworking people to protect ordinary citizens like us from sneaky jerks who liked to steal lots of money. The office was chugging along. People were handing each other papers and making phone calls, and the con artist was examining some blueprints at his desk for a mortgage fraud case.

When all of a sudden, a man in a black suit and sunglasses walked in, held up a piece of paper, and demanded that everyone stop working. "My friends, I have bad news," he said. "The FBI has just approved massive budget cuts. There is no money to pay all of you. I am sorry. By order of the ADIC, you must all leave the building by the end of the day, and we must shut this office down."

The agents were stunned and sad. This was terrible news. What would ordinary citizens do without the protection of this White Collar office? They would be helpless against the greedy meanies who meant them harm!

"Here comes a Special Agent in Charge," said the con artist. "Let us ask him to help us."

So all the agents and secretaries and clerks cried out together, "Please, Mr. SAC, won't you help us out of this budget mess? The FBI wants to close our office, and the people of New York won't have any recourse against White Collar crime unless you help us."

But the SAC snorted. He was very debonair in his suit and tie. "I help you? I am an Organized Crime SAC. My department stops mobsters and drug rings and catches people who run cruel human trafficking scams. My department is _far_ more important than your little office. _I_ find funding for the likes of _you_? Indeed not!"

And off he walked to the break room, where Special Agents live when they are not busy. How sad all the agents and secretaries and clerks felt. Then the con artist called out. "The Organized Crime SAC is not the only one in the world. Here is another SAC coming, a tall one with broad shoulders. Let us ask him to help us." The con artist flagged the guy down and he came to a stop.

"Please, oh please, Mr. SAC," cried all the agents and secretaries and clerks together. "Won't you please help us out of this budget mess? The FBI wants to close our office, and the people of New York won't have any recourse against White Collar crime unless you help us."

But the tall SAC pompously said, "I am the SAC for Foreign Counterintelligence. My department keeps America's juiciest secrets out of the hands of foreign powers who might want to do this country harm. I am a very important SAC indeed, and my obligation is to my department alone. I won't help the likes of you!"

And the SAC puffed off indignantly to the break room. All the agents and secretaries and clerks were very sad. "Cheer up," cried the con artist. "The Foreign Counterintelligence SAC is not the only one in the world. Here comes another. He looks very old and tired, but our office is so little, perhaps he can help us."

So the con artist flagged the guy down, and the elderly gentleman stopped.

"Please, kind sir," cried all the agents and secretaries and clerks together. "Won't you please help us out of this budget mess? The FBI wants to close our office, and the people of New York won't have any recourse against White Collar crime unless you help us."

But the elderly SAC sighed, "I am so tired. I'm less than two weeks from retirement, and I'm looking forward to a rest. This is hardly the way I wanted things to be going when I was on my way out, but I'm afraid I don't have the power to save this office. I'm sorry, my friends. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot." And he shuffled off to the break room mumbling, "I cannot. I cannot. I cannot."

Then indeed the little office was very, very sad, and the agents and secretaries and clerks were ready to cry.

But the con artist had not lost hope. He called out, "Here is another SAC coming, a wiry, irascible one who wears suspenders. Maybe he will help us."

("Oh, hush, Neal," said one of the secretaries, but no one paid him any mind.)

The SAC was walking along. When the con artist flagged him down, he stopped quickly. He saw the sad faces and the office in disarray, and put his hands on his hips.

"What the hell is going on in here?" he asked bluntly.

"Oh, Mr. SAC," cried all the agents and secretaries and clerks, "Will you help us out of this budget mess? The FBI wants to close our office, and the people of New York won't have any recourse against White Collar crime unless you help us. Please, please help us."

The SAC scratched the snowy-white hair on his balding head. "Well, I'm not very powerful," he explained. "I came out of retirement to be an SAC. I'm not sure if I have the political pull to keep this office open."

"But you must," said all the agents and secretaries and clerks. "The people of New York are counting on us! If we close, who will help them?"

The SAC looked around and saw the tears in the secretaries' eyes. And he thought of all the people who would have no one to protect them from White Collar crime unless he helped. Then he said, "I think I can. I think I can. I think I can." And he boldly walked into the office and started making phone calls.

The SAC got everyone in the office involved, and soon all the agents and secretaries and clerks and the con artist were explaining the situation over the phone and calling people who could potentially help. The office was abuzz with activity. When the con artist wasn't on the phone, he was in charge of the big dry erase board, keeping a tally of promises, donations, and favors. Every time an agent or a secretary or a clerk got someone to agree to help them, the con artist changed the numbers on the board. Onward and upward, higher and higher the numbers climbed.

Until at last they reached their fundraising goal. The FBI budget was still a mess, but the White Collar office was saved. They would continue to serve the people of New York, and they wouldn't be shut down.

"Hooray, hooray!" cried the con artist and all the agents and secretaries and clerks. "The people of New York will sleep more soundly in their beds tonight because you helped us, kind sir."

And the SAC smiled and said to himself, as he put on his coat and hat and prepared to go home, "I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could."

THE END

* * *

**Possibly of interest: **First of all, yes, if you noticed, Neal took on the role of the little clown. Sorry, but I had to do it. I read the book and just … cast him. (-;

Also, while I was researching some FBI stuff to figure out what Hughes' title actually was, I discovered that there is technically no "White Collar Division." The Criminal Investigative Division (CID) of the FBI is a massive division that, among many other things, includes investigations into white collar crime. Peter putting together a white collar _task force_, as Jones put it in "Forging Bonds," is pretty on point. Apparently, it's called a "squad." The actual FBI field office in New York City has 9 such squads, which focus on different types of fraudulent activities in the New York metropolitan area. Because the New York field office is so large, a single SAC (Special Agent in Charge) can't possibly run it. The New York office is presided over by the Assistant Director in Charge (ADIC). Underneath this ADIC are six SACs. Currently one of them has the last name "Fowler." Swear to God. Look it up if you don't believe me.

Presumably, Hughes is the fictional SAC that keeps an eye on all the white collar squads in the building. Peter leads his own squad and thus is Hughes's direct subordinate. He may or may not qualify as an ASAC (Assistant Special Agent in Charge), frequently pronounced "_A_-sack," but he rocks it out with an awesome squad that happens to include a certain con artist we all know and love. So, there's some random trivia for you.

**And**: Yes, this really is the last installment of this totally demented collection. If you enjoyed _The Adventures of Neal and Peter_ and you would like to write your _own_ adventures, by all means, go for it. I bequeath this idea to the general writing public. (_The Cool Cat in the Hat_, anyone?) Have fun.

In case anyone's interested, the big title of this work is a little homage to an amazing bunch of stories that made a huge impression on me in my youth, _The Adventures of Tintin_ by Hergé (AKA Georges Remi).

Thanks for reading, everybody. (-:

Kiki


End file.
